Rogue
by pansymoomalfoy32
Summary: Shortly after Wesley arrives in Sunnydale, Buffy is kidnapped by the Council wetworks team to be reeducated in London. Giles will go to any lengths to get her back, even if it means allying himself with an unpredictable vampire known for his obsession with slayers.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Written for the Elysian Fields' Artistic Anniversary Challenge. Based on the Banner 40 Artwork by Wonder and Ashes (which can be seen on the EF site). The rules were: Must Have Buffy getting kidnapped, Spike coming to her rescue, happy Spuffy. Can Have snark and banter, road trip craziness, and evil council/Initiative. Can Not Have Scooby bashing, Bangel, or Biley.

* * *

The bald lightbulb above her head is buzzing. Buffy stares down at the solid wooden table in front of her, willing her face to stone.

"Interview date: March 3, 1999. Subject: Slayer Buffy Anne Summers. Called in 1996 and previously stationed on the Sunnydale, California Hellmouth until February of 1999…" the voice drones on.

A single tapered column supports the table before her, rather than four legs. The wood grain is the same color as the floor and that bugs her more than it should.

 _Ever hear of contrasting colors?_

Okay, in all honesty, the Council of Kidnappers' sucky interior decorating skills aren't the issue. She's just trying to distract herself from the sad reality that is now her life. Well, the _sadder_ reality that is now her life.

Buffy considers her options. She doesn't have many. Only a few weeks ago, she could've picked up this heavy old piece of furniture and swung it at her "interviewer" like a baseball bat, then easily made her escape.

"Miss Summers was not discovered until _after_ her calling, much later than the current recommended standard. As is well-documented, most slayers are now located while they still possess the potential to be called."

Unfortunately, her slay-strength? Kind of unavailable.

Reuben Hayward's shiny black shoes tap in annoyingly precise beats. He circles behind her again, slowly pacing as he as recites her rap sheet to the stenographer in the corner.

"...and therefore, in the Council's opinion, Miss Summers has not received adequate education to function as an active slayer."

Buffy glares up through her eyelashes at the man speaking.

Reuben is a balding man with a curtain of dark hair that falls from the back of his head down to brush his shoulders.

 _Blech._

Most of these guys seem to be losing hair. Must be the stress of the job. Buffy's mouth twists. Fighting evil all on their lonesome. Poor, poor Watcher's Council.

"...most fortunate to be able to fill the vacant position with Slayer Faith Lehane. See _Historic Records: Precedents Set in the Twentieth Century_ for more information concerning the second and current slayer…"

Buffy lifts her chin so she can get a bead on Reuben. He's too focused on the dutiful stenographer and, probably, the sound of his own voice to notice. Buffy closes one eye, tongue between her teeth, and pictures herself winding up to bat with the table. Reuben's sweat-slick head almost seems like a spinning baseball in the yellowish light. Aaaand-

"...a strict physical, mental, and medical regimen to streamline Miss Summers' productivity…"

Wham! Buffy clicks her tongue and catches Reuben's eye. She grins at his puzzled brow. She'd just mentally knocked one out of the park, as Xander would put it.

"Can I help you, Miss Summers?"

"I seriously doubt that," Buffy says.

He frowns quellingly at her, before resuming his circuit around the interrogation room. Buffy blows out her bangs. Her hair is at that stupid stage between cute bangs and all the way grown out. They should be clipped back into side bangs, but these London-based Watchers aren't anything like Giles. Hair care is obviously low on the totem pole for them and so, for her as well.

God, she misses Giles.

Gritting her teeth, Buffy listens in again. There's a teensy chance Reuben may say something that the other tweeds haven't yet. Something that might give her an advantage.

"We are cautiously optimistic that Miss Summers' reeducation can be completed in no less than three, and no greater than twelve months' time."

Boy howdy, does she need every advantage she can get.

Reuben faces her with a thin smile. "Miss Summers, for the record, can you summarize the extent of your slaying education under Merrick Jamison-Smythe and Rupert Giles?"

Buffy slow-blinks, a sure signal Giles would've picked up on immediately. _Caution. Slow down. Try a new angle._

Reuben folds his hands together in front of his neatly pressed jacket, thumbs and forefingers extended together, like a downward pointing gun. "Chronologically, if you please."

"I can't," Buffy says.

His eyebrows jerk a little. "Excuse me? You can't what?"

"Summarize my slaying education. You asked if I could. I can't."

"Why can't you?"

Buffy widens her eyes. "No one taught me how to correctly summarize my slaying education. So I guess I can't."

Reuben isn't smiling now.

"I think I must be incapable," Buffy confides to him in an exaggerated stage whisper.

The clacking from the typist in the corner peters out. Her interrogator's cheeks are flushing pink as he glances over to the other witness in the room.

Amateur.

Reuben's throat bobs when he swallows. "Just-just do the best that you can."

Buffy shrugs. "I'd hate to get it wrong. I strive for perfection, you know."

He stares at her like she can't possibly be doing this to him. "The information, Miss Summers. You understand me." He sort of trails off with a suggestion of humor in his voice. Like they might laugh together at her stubbornness in a minute when she's sure to give in.

Oh, Reuben. _Learn to live with disappointment._

That's what they told her when she woke up strapped to her seat in an airplane, drugged to the gills over the Atlantic. When she asked them about her mom and her friends, her school and her duty. Her real watcher.

Success is met with success. Failure with failure. Disappointment with disappointment. Quentin Travers explained this to her over a celebratory drink which he raised to her in the airplane cabin. Buffy had been unable to toast in return, what with the drugs and psych ward straps and all.

Buffy's gaze sharpens. She watches Reuben flinch back from her look, the sensitive corners of his mouth tightening in distress and she thinks, _tit for tat._

* * *

"Take me with you."

Giles jumps at the sound of the voice in his open doorway. He looks over to see none other than Spike, Slayer of Slayers, standing on his doorstep.

Giles shudders. Even after all these years, the sight of a vampire outside his home strikes dread into his heart. It's almost worse, knowing in excruciating detail all the many bloody ways this encounter could end. Truly, ignorance can be bliss.

But it's his job to ask the questions, todiscover the reasons _._ "Why would you want to come?"

Spike's lips part over gleaming teeth. "She deserves a better end than this one. They'll ruin her."

Well. Not what he expected. "On that, we can agree."

The night is quiet, but for the chorus of cicadas in the courtyard and rummaging sounds as Giles packs his luggage.

"When do we leave?"

"We don't," Giles emphasizes as he clicks shut his travelling case. "You're a vampire, one Buffy has fought against before. One," he raises his voice, tone still cool, "known for killing slayers. No. I'm not taking you anywhere near her."

"You can't keep me away." Spike looks amused, sloe-eyed and smirking.

"I'm surprised, Spike, that you're not interested in staying here." Giles' heart pounds harder at the betrayal of his next words. "Sunnydale still has a slayer. Tell me, have you met Faith?"

Faith, murderer. Faith, the true rogue from the mission. Faith...whom Giles is willing to throw to the wolves if it'd mean sparing Buffy another dangerous complication.

Faith is more than capable of holding her own, Giles reminds himself, even against the likes of William the Bloody.

Probably.

Keeping the vampire in his peripheral, Giles moves around his flat. Spike is all lean muscle and sharp angles. He shouldn't be so unnerving. Without that duster, Giles would bet Spike would seem almost frail. Instead, he only reminds Giles of a hungry hyena. Not a lot of heft to him, but still not a creature to disregard. Or to turn one's back on.

"Little Miss Anti-Establishment? Yeah, we crossed paths. Trailed her, fought her. Not impressed. I want the real slayer."

A band of tension tightens around Giles' temples. Why Buffy? _And why me?_ Why must it always be his charge who attracts the worst of the worst? Honestly, Spike makes his obsession with slayers sound personal in regards to Buffy. The very thought-no. It does not bear thinking on. Not now, when everything else has gone so very wrong.

Giles sets his luggage upright, and gathers all pertinent paperwork for the journey ahead. "You're a bigger fool than I imagined to think I'd give you access to Buffy. I'm off to save her, understand." He meets chill blue eyes. "This isn't a mission of mercy, some kind of...slayer euthanasia. It's a rescue. Trust me when I say you don't want to make yourself an obstacle."

Spike leans a narrow shoulder against the doorframe and Giles idly considers the effects of spraying holy water around his property. Would that deter vampires? Even after the moisture dried? An experiment for less busy times..."Not intending to be an obstacle, mate," his visitor is saying. "More like a cohort."

Giles snorts. "You want to rescue the Slayer? No harming her, no ulterior motive whatsoever-"

"Didn't say _that._ Come on. I have all the ulterior motives. She's the best slayer I've ever crossed. I want her fighting and free."

Giles slaps down his file. "So you can get your fight to the death!"

"Yeah, maybe. But not right away. I can wait until she's settled back here at full strength. That's what I want, Watcher. A brilliant fight. Where am I gonna get that if those puppeteers in merry 'ol make her disappear forever? I want her back as much as you do-"

Giles reaches for his loaded crossbow, disgust warring with impatience.

Raising his hands up in surrender, Spike laughs. "Or not. Don't get bent out of shape. Look, your chances of success are better off with me along. Strike from the unexpected angle, that's what I say."

This is an intriguing enough proposition to freeze Giles' finger on the trigger. It would be unexpected, wouldn't it? Surely Travers knows he will be storming over to London in a hurry. The Council will be prepared for that, will likely already have countermeasures in place.

Giles regards Spike with fresh eyes.

"I'm not going after her if she's at anything less than her best," Spike adds. His eyes gleam, no doubt sensing Giles' weakening resolve.

"You don't go after her at all."

"Ever again? I'm won't agree to that."

"Until she's returned to Sunnydale. With a three day grace period."

Long fingers curl against Giles' doorframe, white knuckled from the forceful grip. "Now we're talking," Spike drawls, his sharp grin filled with far too many teeth.

How does the phrase go? _Sometimes a deal with the devil_ _is better than no deal at all._

* * *

Tonight holds the kind of quiet that drives Angel mad. When the world is this still and peaceful, the chaos in his head swells to unmanageable levels. He tamps down the urge to seek oblivion, or even the white noise fighting brings.

He must focus.

Hands jammed deep in his coat pockets, he tastes the air. Buffy's scent is already fading from her patrol route. Angel's eyes burn, the fresh air stale in his mouth. Gone from Sunnydale for three weeks and already, he's losing her. All of her effort, all of her passion spent on these paths around the Hellmouth...how long until there's no evidence left that Buffy Summers fought the good fight here?

Even with his advanced hearing, Angel can't pick up any sounds from the nearest airport. Not that he knows exactly which flight Giles is taking. He only knows that he isn't with him on the rescue.

In his pockets, Angel's nails bite into his palms until the skin breaks. Really, he's just a useless sack of evil. His mission, his driving purpose is to help Buffy. But the Wetworks team spirited her away from right under his nose. And now he isn't even going after her.

For the thousandth time, Angel plots his way out of Sunnydale, over to London, to Buffy's side where he belongs. Visions of door-smashing entrances and cowering councilmembers fill his imagination. Of Buffy's eyes lighting up when she sees him.

Painfully, he rejects these plans again. If he hadn't spoken to Buffy's watcher, he might not have slowed down long enough to think about what abandoning the Hellmouth for her really meant.

 _Would you place your affection for her above your duty to the helpless?_

Yes, he would.

Angel grinds his teeth. Dammit, he's still new to this destiny thing. He's spent most of his existence either going after or denying what he wants. Having to choose like this...it didn't occur to him. In his mind, helping Buffy is his duty. He helps the helpless by helping her.

Now, it's help the helpless OR help her.

 _Don't you? Prioritise her?_ Angel had asked Giles, bitter and anxious.

 _Yes. My duty is to Buffy._ Giles hadn't been able to meet his eyes. _I thought yours was to fighting evil. Fighting for redemption._

Buffy is my redemption, Angel wanted to say. _She needs me. What do you expect me to do?_ he'd said instead, hating himself for every word.

Because in the darkest corners of his heart, Angel missed the simplicity of being Angelus, of being certain of himself and his choices.

 _You're needed here,_ Giles told him. _With Buffy gone and Faith far afield from her calling, someone must keep the Hellmouth safe. The children already plan to step up in Buffy's absence. Help them. Keep Faith out of trouble._ The other man caught his gaze. _Do you understand what I'm asking? I'm trusting Buffy's mission...to you, Angel._

Nothing less could keep him here and away from her. Angel scuffs the pavement with his boot, still conflicted. Giles' show of trust isn't lost on him. Particularly after the events of last year.

Down the street, a door opens and bar music spills out along with Faith and a couple of grabby guys trailing after her.

Lip curling, Angel fades back into the shadows. His experience with Buffy has taught him to keep his distance from a slayer, lest she pick up on his whereabouts with that sixth sense seemingly ingrained into her psyche.

The girl is drunk and bright with the too-hot fires of desperate living. She sashays between the men, paying each just enough attention to keep them salivating after her as she transfers her affections from one to the next.

Despite the obvious interest in keeping company, Faith brushes off all serious advances and moves off on her own. One guy doesn't take the hint and steals her wrist, trying to strong-arm her into staying.

From where he lurks, Angel can hear the snap of bone quite clearly. Extraneous concerns filter out as he stills, prepared to intervene.

Faith leaves the guy sobbing on the damp street. She doesn't look back. She doesn't see Angel position himself in the middle of the road, staring after her with a brow more serious than usual.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer still applies. Reviews are more than welcome :)

* * *

It's possible Giles may have been too hasty in allowing a known anarchistic sociopath to accompany him to London.

But then, part of him doesn't care, despite the misgivings. After all, he himself had worn a similar label after his stint with dark magicks.

Mostly, he's trying not to think about his spontaneous alliance. Fear and doubt can so quickly kill forward momentum. _Forget about how much this seems like history repeating itself_ , Giles tells himself. _You're not making an enormous mistake. Trusting Angel and receiving Angelus in return in no way resembles this situation. Spike is already evil. So, not to worry._

Oh, dear.

The unlikely pair are currently en route on the first flight from LAX. The dim-lit evening hours made for easy vampiric access to the airport and plane. Giles is disturbed by how simple it had been for Spike to shove over a bunch of cash for his ticket, then stroll onboard.

Globe-trotting vampires. Dear Lord, that really is how their world works now. Even as recently as a century ago, this sort of demonic reach wouldn't have been possible.

Giles mentally adds this thought to the ever-growing list of Things That Keep Him Up At Night. Although, it's rather far down in matters of importance. Topping his list is of course the problem of Buffy and the Council. Ever since his appointment to the girl, Giles has worried this day would come. Buffy's independence and self-direction flies in the face of everything the Council wants from a ground soldier fighting against the forces of darkness. She-

A loud cellophane crinkling interrupts Giles' train of thought. One of the forces of darkness bumps elbows with him and spills packaged peanuts everywhere. The small snacks bounce off Giles' knees and settle on the floor where they no doubt will be crushed into a gritty powder he will have to suffer through for the next ten hours.

Giles adjusts his glasses and deliberately turns to his left.

A dark brow quirks up. "Should've sprung for first-class, Watcher."

He clenches his teeth. "I've barely the funds for an economy ticket."

"I can see that." Spike's bright blue eyes flicker down over Giles' oldest tweed suit, causing his spine to stiffen in affront.

"As if you have room to talk. I'm surprised you weren't pulled aside for questioning with that get-up. You look like a complete menace."

His vampire companion grins, wide and pleased. He smooths a hand over the collar of his leather coat. "I _am_ a menace. It's the charm that carries me through."

Strangely enough, that seems to be the case. "Well, do more to keep your head down. I've already purchased a number of seats in my name for different flights and times set arrive in London over the next day or so. I won't have you ruin my investment by alerting the Council to which one I'm truly on."

Spike's face livens, grin now stretching his skin tight across sharp cheekbones. "Clever, Watcher."

Giles sniffs. "I didn't come down with the last shower, you know."

"Clearly." Spike threads his fingers together and stretches his arms forward and upward until Giles can hear joints popping. Things settle down in their section of the plane. Giles cautiously presses against the small window, shifting so his back won't face the vampire in the neighboring seat.

Spike sighs.

With a grimace, Giles contemplates the danger of drifting off to sleep next to a vicious killer. If he does, will Spike try anything?

Giles watches Spike start drumming his knuckles on his thighs, legs bouncing to some rapid beat. Oh, correction, he's seated next to a _hyperactive_ vicious killer. And Giles willingly cornered himself here in this tiny three seat row.

"Nerves?"

Speaking of the third seat.

A woman in a cream blouse smiles at Spike and his obvious pent-up energy. She's just returned from the loo to unknowingly bookend one of the most dangerous vampires in recent history.

Spike gives her his complete attention, leaving Giles to stare at the back of his slicked back bleach blonde hair. "Not me," Spike says, tone morphing into something beguiling, if not outright friendly. "Been flying my whole life. It's what's waiting on the other side of the pond that's got me twisted in knots."

The woman makes a soft noise of surprise and interest.

Spike relaxes back into his seat, holding court. "Yeah. Got to find my girl, see; I've been searching high and low for her for some time now. We separated last year, but I'm determined to patch things up."

Giles makes no effort to disguise his snort.

Spike doesn't miss a beat. He starts spinning some yarn about a quest to find his lost lady, using just enough elements of their true mission to keep Giles alert and somewhat alarmed.

Their fellow traveler is captivated by the tale. "What an amazing story! Absolutely romantic, too. She's sure to take you back. Look at what you're willing to do for her."

Spike shrugs one shoulder. "She's not an easy bird to impress. S'what I like about her. Always making me work for it."

Unease tingles down Giles' spine. He stomps Spike's foot. Encased as they are in combat boots, Spike's feet appear immune to the hint to shut up.

The woman finally notices him. "Hello. Are you okay there, sir?"

"Perfectly fine." And not so old as to warrant the address 'sir' from a woman only a few years his junior!

"Glad to hear it. Did you just wake up? You jolted so strangely there, you had me worried you were having-well, I haven't even introduced myself, have I? My name's Dana." She reaches across Spike to offer a hand to Giles.

Spike's eyes go half-mast and without leaning forward from his slouch, his nostrils flare. Dana short hair exposes her neck and she's just put herself directly in a predator's sights.

Giles hastens to shake her hand, not offering his name. Her smile falters. He hates to demonstrate such poor manners, but today discretion is key. Giles quickly sips from his water glass to occupy himself.

Dana asks Spike, "Do you two know each other?"

Spike nods. "This here's my father."

Giles gasps mid-drink and water sloshes down his chin.

"He's a bit feeble these days, and doesn't say much either. Couldn't rightly leave him to his own devices so I brought him along."

The plastic water cup cracks in Giles' fist. He coughs to clear his airway. He coughs and chokes down maddening fury until a flight attendant comes by to ask if they needed medical assistance. Feeling distinctly old, feeble, and vaguely murderous, Giles waves the whole circus away and takes his chances with some blessed sleep.

* * *

The worst part about taking over Buffy's responsibilities is how hands-on Angel has to be now. He grimaces from where he hovers awkwardly on the outskirts of the arguing children.

Oh, for the days when he could silence his steps and vanish from the group. Leave them a hint, then _leave_.

"-can't believe those creeps took Buffy!"

"Giles better bring her back soon. Doesn't anyone else remember the crazy wish world? I don't want that to happen again."

"Did you-"

"Oh my god, no! What, do you think I'm some kind of idiot?"

"You know, Cordy? That right there is what we in the industry like to call low-hanging fruit…"

As he fights the urge to find a dark, quiet place to think, Angel discovers new respect for Rupert Giles. The man obviously wrangles more than demons and slayers, here in the school library.

Teenagers.

Angel decides that leading a bunch of high schoolers must be part of the ultimate suffering his soul is meant to bear. It's the only explanation for the high intensity torture involved.

He straightens, throwing a towering shadow across the research table. "Enough. We need to focus on the big picture."

"Who asked you?" Xander has worked himself up into a right state. "Listen up, Dead-Boy. We don't need your help."

Angel keeps his face very still, except to let his eyes drift over the boy's injuries.

Xander colors, the pink clashing with his blackened eyes. Something whapped the kid well enough during last night's patrol to break his nose.

"Um, speak for yourself. We're all gonna die if we don't get some kind of help. Just look at you, Xander!"

Angel likes Cordelia. She cuts straight to the point, no wasting time. Though she could frame her argument better, perhaps more positively.

"No, stop looking at me!" Xander protests. He waves a hand in front of his face. "Okay, it's like this. Could we use a Buffy or maybe a Giles right about now? Oh yeah. Should we substitute them with a bloodsucking fiend from hell? I vote no."

"Xander," Willow admonishes.

In the good old days, annoying loud mouths ended up kicked to the curb. In a body bag.

Angel focuses on a point beyond the Scoobies' heads. Calmness and serenity. He can do this. Because this isn't the good old days-known actually as the Very Bad Days-and annoying loud mouths must be endured.

But hey, it's not like Angel doesn't have plenty of practice doing just that with a certain, grating family member.

...Okay, that could describe Angel's entire lineage. Spike. He deserves a medal for how long he's endured _Spike_. Xander Harris will be a cakewalk in comparison.

"Is anyone else worried about Faith? Because I am!" Willow is saying.

Angel determines that the second slayer must have been raised and dismissed as a possible source of help.

"Yeah, she seems pretty wild these days. Even by my standards." Oz pulls up a chair next to his distraught girlfriend.

"Dude, your standards aren't exactly wild."

Oz shrugs. "Wolf standards."

Angel nods. He feels it too, on the base level-his senses jangle with Faith's escalating savagery. "She's a loose cannon, so steer clear. I'll deal with her if it comes down to that."

A semi-circle of young, concerned faces peer back at him.

"Faith isn't really in a dealing mood," Xander says. "Buffy tried the intervention thing. So did I."

Calmness. Serenity. Don't laugh.

Willow's eyes are huge in her face. "Giles basically said to give her lots of space, so we don't scare her off."

Cordelia scoffs. "What is she, a stray dog?"

Oz turns in his chair to shoot a look over his shoulder.

"No offense, Oz."

"None taken. As usual, I can't really tell if that was an insult or a backhanded defense of character."

"So Faith's out," Angel stresses, wanting to get back on track. "We know the Mayor is up to something and that we'll need to do regular patrols."

"Oh! I can draw up a rotating schedule!" Willow dances in her seat. She looks much younger than the upperclassman she is, dressed in baggy overalls and a long-sleeve yellow striped shirt.

"Forget that! Make Angel kill all the scary stuff. Willow, you big nerd, you can handle research things. Xander can still do the snack run, unless he completely wrecked his hand-eye coordination by running into that vampire's fist. Oz can be backup for any of those jobs. And I," Cordelia spreads her arms out like she's accepting applause. "Will graduate high school in one piece."

After a moment of proverbial crickets, Oz ventures, "That's a pretty solid plan."

Willow looks like she wants to object on principle of it being Cordelia's idea, but Angel preempts this.

"Fine by me. But understand, I don't want any of you patrolling like you did with Buffy. I'll handle it."

"But Angel, Buffy's the Slayer and even she needed help." Willow frowns at him, stern as a cream puff.

"She had help. Me."

Xander looks too angry to form words, which Angel counts as a victory.

"By that logic, basic addition says you're still one fighter short," Oz points out.

"We have tons of experience helping Buffy patrol, even when you aren't there!" Willow says, twirling a finger in his direction.

"Even," Xander adds, his eyes gleaming. "When you were the Big Bad. Isn't that right, _Angelus_?"

Angel grits his teeth. God, he misses Buffy. He isn't used to having to defend himself so much. She normally steps in way before things reach this point. "Angelus is dead and gone. I'm your ally, you idiot."

"An ally with a split personality who likes to go all Jekyll and Hyde on our asses-"

"Come on, Xander. That's not really fair. Angel has his soul again, for now." Willow pokes her surly friend in the arm. "You can disagree minus the getting nasty with personal attacks, you know."

"Gee, you're right. Why should I hold back on the personal attacks from the guy who personally attacked us last year?"

"Listen to yourself, lamebrain. That's actually really good advice." Cordelia inspects her nails with a put upon sigh and pulls out a nail filer.

"...so it is." Xander squints at Angel uncertainly.

"Meeting dismissed," Angel says, mostly because he wants to get the hell away from this uncomfortable situation.

"Wait a minute, I called the meeting, I should be the one who decides when we dismiss," Willow objects.

Everyone stares at her and she peers down her nose in return. A silly move coming from a girl sitting at a table.

"Meeting dismissed," Willow says with mock solemnity.

Angel's halfway to the door before the last word leaves her mouth.

* * *

Soon after Buffy wakes and forces down the questionable stew provided to her, she's dragging her feet on the way to the stupid interrogation room. Flanking her on either side are members of the wetworks team. Considering how easily they nabbed her in Sunnydale, Buffy doesn't feel up to trying to slip their watch now.

Her stomach rolls and she swallows down the persistent sick feeling. All she wants to do is lay down on her living room couch with a cool cloth on her forehead. Ask her mom to come home early from work and make her yummy homemade chicken noodle soup.

A hand lands on Buffy's shoulder and steers her into The Room, like she doesn't already know where to go after the last hundred visits.

Same old hard chair. Same old Reuben. Someone's with him this time, a thin old man with rosy cheeks and black rim glasses who steps forward when she enters. He smiles at Buffy when she sits.

Buffy swallows a couple times to settle the nausea rising in her throat.

"How are you this morning, Miss Summers?"

"Peachy, with a side of keen," Buffy says tartly.

"Glad to hear it, glad to hear it." The newcomer pulls up a chair across from her and taps the loose pages of his file down even against the table. "I believe introductions are in order! My name is Stuart Buckley and I've been selected to join the team aiding your rehabilitation, Miss Summers."

"Rehab? Um, I'm not addicted to drugs," Buffy feels her face scrunch in disgust. What's wrong with these people?

Buckley's eyes light up and he raises a finger. "Ah! But see, the process is quite similar. You may not be involved in substance abuse. However, a person can become addicted to more than drugs, can't they? So many of us walk around every day, a slave to our addictions. To coffee, exercise," he begins flipping pages down in front of her. "...to adrenaline, even to interpersonal drama. The list goes on."

Buffy stares down at a spread of glossy photographs capturing images of Merrick from years ago, and of Giles from her time in Sunnydale. She wonders who the photographer was. Someone who could take pictures of Giles in the library during school hours.

"Do you see where I'm going with this?" Buckley asks. "A person can become addicted to a certain lifestyle. This grows to be a problem when the individual's lifestyle doesn't suit their responsibilities."

Oh, she sees where he's going with this.

Under the table, Buffy's fists clench. "Let me guess. My addiction is to thwarting authority. And you've brought me here to stamp it out."

Buckley's smile never seems to go anywhere. It's like a permanent attachment of his face. "Very well done. You are certainly close to the heart of the issue. Self-awareness is the most important step."

Ugh.

"Yeah, I've heard all this crap from toadier toads than you, Stuart." Buffy is a little weirded out that Buckley only smiles and nods at this. Creep. "I do my best work when I do my own thing. Ask anyone- _who's been in the field,"_ she emphasizes when it looks like she's going to be interrupted.

"Hm. Interesting that you bring that up. I've looked to the field, as you call it." Buckley slides the photographs closer. "Because my first question when hearing of your case was simply this: who have the authority figures been during your calling? Watchers Merrick and Giles of course. I'm afraid they've left quite the legacy with your...training." Buckley clucks his tongue. In the background, Reuben is smirking, leaned up against the wall. Probably happy to see her get the runaround for once, especially after what Buffy's put him through these last few days.

"Merrick did the best he could with the time he had," Buffy says. Her voice goes cold. "And Giles is worth more than all of the rest of you put together. They've done fine by me. I'm still alive, aren't I?"

Her handlers exchange looks. "Yes, you did warn me," Buckley chuckles. "She's certainly spirited! Miss Summers, our time together will proceed much more smoothly if you behave as a proper student would. You're here to learn, not to question."

An anxious restlessness fills Buffy. She's reminded of her stint in the psych ward, of stupid Principal Snyder, of Wesley's smug face.

 _Trap, it's a trap,_ dull instincts prod the back of her skull. Buffy doesn't need prompting. She can see the trap, clear as day.

"Fine. I have nothing to say to you anyway."

Glances are exchanged again. _So infantile, she acts like a rotten child,_ the glance says. _She has so much to learn._

Let the council goons talk at her all day. Buffy won't be listening to a single word.


	3. Chapter 3

In a small room high up in the northernmost tower of the Watcher's Council Headquarters, Buffy lays wide awake on her cot and counts the tolling of a bell. _One…two…_ Buffy stares at one of dim yellow lights in the ceiling. _Three...four_. Lights out on the last chime, plunging her windowless room into darkness.

Four in the morning, the approved slayer bedtime. The lights will flick back on at twelve-bell noon, by her reckoning.

Needless to say, the weird enforced sleep pattern has been making for one very grumpy Buffy.

 _And they wonder why I give them trouble._

She deeply regrets joking about joining a nunnery. Who'd choose to live like this? Women made of sterner stuff than she, that's for sure.

Buffy's room is barely better than a prison cell, and she thinks that's probably the point. She's almost certain she's in some old important castle-turned-headquarters in London run by the Council. They don't let her see much outside of her little room, a few hallways, and the interrogation room.

As far as she can tell, no one here is sure how to handle her so they've been trying a little bit of everything. This whole nightmare has been like showing up to her favorite teacher's class only to meet the worst, most out of control substitute ever.

Buffy misses Giles like an amputated limb. Despite their ups and downs, she knows he cares about her. She can trust him. Even when things got bad with Kravic, Giles pulled through for her in the end.

The Council? Buffy doesn't trust them at all. And a grand total of zero of them care about her, _Buffy_. They're only interested in her, _Slayer._

Buffy scoots over to the wall and covers her face with her forearm, trying to force sleep. She's still sick and tired from the drugs they needled her with back in Sunnydale…escape sounds so impossible when she wants to blow chunks. The second she kicks the effect of the Cruciamentum drugs, she'll bust out of here. Then woe to whoever stands in her way.

* * *

"Your watcher reports that you still allow civilians to join you on patrol. Explain your thought process for this decision."

"Wesley isn't my watcher. Giles is," Buffy says, tired and sullen. She wonders how long it's been since they kidnapped her. Days blur together.

"Rupert Giles was fired for his misconduct during your last testing. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce is your watcher, and good thing too. If he hadn't alerted us to the seriousness of the Sunnydale situation, who knows how long you might have been allowed to run wild."

Everything the new guy is saying makes Buffy want to punch him in the face. "Yeah, good old Wesley, always with the last minute save."

New Guy Nigel, Creepy Buckley, and Toady Reuben have formed a little panel. They confer notes, swap theories, and generally tag team her during these little sessions until Buffy wants to scream.

After she mockingly praises Wesley, the gutless wonder, the men seem to make an effort not to look at each other. Buffy snorts. "Even you guys know how useless that jerk is, I can tell. Why send me someone like that? Giles might not follow all the rules-which are way outdated and unreasonable, just so you know-but he does know how to keep me alive. If I followed Wesley's advice, I'd be dead three times over by now."

Buckley tsks. "Now, now, young lady. We have inherent confusion here. Mr. Wyndam-Pryce issued orders that you did not follow. His words were not meant to be taken under advisement."

Reuben nods. "It's not your place to decide the plan."

Buffy tosses her hands in the air. "Didn't you just hear me? I had to adapt on the fly. If I followed his orders, I'd be dead. Not that you guys care. Between Wesley and the Cruciamentum, it's almost like you're trying to kill me, not help me."

Her words go uncontested.

Buffy's stomach tightens in a ball of misery. "You're trying to kill me," she repeats so softly, it's no longer a question. Her sluggish senses flutter awake along her neck and down her spine. _Enemy? Danger?_ Like a joke. Last month, she could've broken these guys in half with one hand. Ridiculous that they can seem dangerous to her now.

"Don't be foolish. You are one of the most valuable tools in the Council's fight against evil. We would no sooner kill you then toss aside the armory's finest sword."

Buffy swallows. "Funnily enough? Not really comforting."

Nigel, an Indian man in his forties, levels a stare at her. "We have a serious situation on our hands, Miss Summers. Neither humor nor comfort belong here."

Horrifyingly, she feels tears prick her eyes. Quick, think of something else. What would Xander say? _Guess it's a good thing we're not mattress shopping._ Or Willow, she'd have her back. _Buffy has the right to live her life with as many funnies as she wants!_ And Giles? If he was here, listening to all this crap, he'd definitely-he'd totally...Buffy clears her throat and shakes her head. When she blinks the tears away, she sees the final addition to her interrogation unit enter the room.

Quentin Travers studies her. "Nigel is correct. Even now, you disregard the severity of what you've done."

Buffy realizes she's the only one sitting. She stands, maybe too fast. Black spots dance in front of her eyes.

He carries on, like a death knell. "You're training record is abysmal and spotty. You scorn true authority and direction in equal measure. You've revealed some of the world's most guarded secrets to several young civilians and placed them in danger time and time again. You consort with vampires and the sorts of humans who do business with demons. You collaborate with dismissed Council employees and conspire against your watcher. You are uneducated, unwieldy, and by all accounts, unworthy of your station."

" _Excuse me?"_ It's too much. She doesn't know what to refute first. "Wha- _unwieldy_? Unworthy? I fight every night to keep the world safe! What have you done?"

The other men hover behind Travers, ruffled by her direct accusation.

"More than you know, Miss Summers." Travers' cool eyes bore into hers. "And I will carry on this fight for longer than you can imagine. Your service was always going to be brief. I'm aware of the dangers our slayers face. But you have no concept of the long battles that are fought for decades, and over centuries. Your purpose is to put out small fires. The Council manages a dimensions-wide blaze."

He's being so reasonable, so adult, that Buffy almost feels like a little kid stamping her foot in comparison. Too bad for Travers and his cronies-she's been working around that particular mind game for years. "That doesn't mean you get to treat me like this. I'm on the front lines while you get to sit back safe and sound in your fortress. If anything, _you owe me_ for what I do. Even soldiers get that...what's it called? Hazard pay."

Travers crosses the room and gestures to her empty chair. Buffy plants her hands on her hips in silent refusal.

"Do you suggest slayers begin charging a fee for rescuing innocents?"

"Watchers are paid!" As she well knows from Giles' complaints post-firing.

Her opponent's lips twitch. "What could you possibly need that isn't provided by the Council already? And, in your case, your mother? Nothing of significance."

"Do you always answer your own questions? Cuz it sure seems like it," Buffy says.

Travers tips his head to her with a smug smile.

"Whatever. It's not about money, it's about having rights. I didn't sign up to be the slayer, I just _am_ the slayer _._ You can't take my life choices away like this."

They stare at her like she's said something ridiculous.

"Choice?" Nigel sounds perplexed. "You said it yourself Miss Summers; you are the slayer. That's the beginning and end of it."

Buffy feels a frustrated scream build and catch in her throat. These people lack all compassion. She's gonna have to lower her expectations if she wants to get any answers.

"Okay...okay. Let's drop the Miss Summers this, Young Lady that, and cut to the chase. According to you, I suck at being the slayer and you're trying to fix me. At what point do I get to go home?"

"Simple. Once you've completed your training to our satisfaction. When you demonstrate your willingness to follow your watcher's orders. When you show you can slay while adhering to council protocol. Do this, and you will regain the freedom you once enjoyed," Travers says.

"Oh, goody. Keeping it easy for me," Buffy spits her words like nails. "How long until you're satisfied with my education?"

"Oh, we've hardly begun your education."

She scoffs. "Yeah, and who's fault is that? How long have you creeps been questioning me?"

"We brought you here three weeks ago today. Believe me, the investigative portion of your stay was never meant to take this long. Cooperation is key to your progress home."

Buffy glares until her eyes burn. Mouth drawn in a tight line, she slowly sits down. Behind Travers, her three handlers swell with triumph. "Investigative portion, huh? What sort of _portions_ are left to all of this?" she asks.

"That's none of your concern." Nigel is a hoot. Definitely Buffy's favorite pal around here.

"Not so fast," Buckley interjects, adjusting his glasses. "Perhaps Miss Summers would benefit from hearing the roadmap to her success. Present a plan and the rest shall follow, eh?"

Travers stays at the front of the group, but he's clearly opened the floor to comment. He keeps his eyes on Buffy, as if gauging how well she can listen to his monkeys throw shit back and forth.

"The plan is thus," Buckley says. "We investigate our concerns regarding current slaying practices. You have been most resistant to this, the simplest step of your reeducation. Do you see how your refusal to cooperate has hurt your own aims? We're on the same side."

Reuben chimes in. "And we would all like to move forward, together."

Buffy doesn't blink, staring dully at the wall.

Buckley goes on. "Next, we will identify areas to improve. Then of course: preparation, preparation, preparation."

Buffy feels her eye twitch.

"Rigorous practice and testing, and finally supervised reentry into patrol."

"Who's supervising?"

"None of your concern," Nigel repeats, louder than before.

"Ri-ight."

"A flip attitude won't get you very far," Travers remarks sedately.

"Not in my experience," Buffy mutters. The disapproving stares don't phase her now. She has bigger fish to fry. "So, that's the plan to fix me, huh? What happens if I'm unfixable?" She tracks the shifting expressions between the four men in front of her, but it's like flipping through a deck of unreadable cards.

When Travers speaks, his voice is calm. "Ask yourself, Miss Summers. What happens to any tool that proves broken beyond repair?" He smiles. "It is replaced."

Buffy's heart races faster. "You answered your own question, again," she whispers through numb lips. "Bad habit you've got there, Quent."

His whole face sours at the bastardization of his name.

Someone in the back murmurs, "Really, Miss Summers."

Her laugh comes out shakier than intended. "Your priorities are completely whacked. I dusted Lothos. I defeated the Master. I sent Angelus to hell. I patrol every night. _I do my job,_ or I did until you trapped me here. The only reason I'm not anymore is because of you. How can you sleep at night knowing you took away Sunnydale's slayer?"

"Soundly," Travers says. "Because I know the benefits of restructuring your education outweigh the risks of taking you off active duty. And I have the assurance that young Faith now protects the Hellmouth."

"Oh yeah, Faith, now she's a shining example of reliability. Did Wesley happen to snitch on her, too? No? Because she's not walking the straight and narrow these days. In fact, I'd be shocked if she's patrolled once since I disappeared. Faith isn't exactly cut out for rules and order-"

"Perhaps you deliberately misunderstand me." Travers straightens his cuffs in preparation to leave. "All slayers are replaceable."

Buffy runs out of words entirely. She watches him exit the room, apparently comfortable with ending the conversation on that note.

The others gather up their paperwork.

"You all really believe that, don't you." Buffy's whole face feels numb.

Reuben glances over to her. "That's the reality of slaying, Miss Summers. The sooner you accept it, the easier it will be." The three men file out behind their boss.

"Easier for who?" Buffy asks the empty room.

One of her guards ducks his head around the doorway. "Get up. Time to go."

Do as they say, or fight at all costs? Buffy's hands are shaking. Isn't this familiar? _I promise I'm not crazy. I never actually thought vampires existed, come on. Just joking around guys. Let me go home and I'll never talk about monsters again._

When the slimmer of her two guards grabs her arm to drag her out, Buffy experimentally yanks back, trying to free her arm.

She can't break his hold. Instead, he grips tighter until her arm goes numb from the pressure, pain streaking down from her elbow. "Ow!"

"Quit struggling. Just walk already."

Her strength isn't coming back. Three weeks, Travers said. She should be stronger by now, unless…

Buffy stumbles into the hallway. Her food. The oatmeal stuff, the stew, those lonely dinners in her room. _They've been drugging her every day._

"What's wrong with you? Don't have asthma, do you?" the goon shakes her a little. Buffy gasps for breath, panic setting in. "Can slayers get asthma?" he asks the other guard who shrugs.

Asthma attack or not, her shortness of breath isn't enough to make her guards take her anywhere but back up two flights of stairs, down a hallway, and into her room. As usual, they lock the door behind her.

The walls seem to be closing in. "Oh my god," Buffy chokes out loud, just to hear a non-pompous voice. Then adds, "This isn't okay. I am so screwed," just to hear the truth.

* * *

How bad would it be to give in?

Buffy huddles on her cot, heels against the wall, head hanging off the mattress edge. Under her hand, her stomach gurgles.

She skipped the basic meat and veggie dinner tonight, but how long can she last doing that? They've really tied her hands. She can eat the drugs and stumble around, sick and weak. Or else there's the always-fun starvation option...which leads to more of the same.

Can she force her way out? She's just a regular girl right now, and one that feels like crap to boot. Ugh, it's hard to think. Door is locked. Guards outside. Castle is probably a huge confusing maze and if she makes it that far, she'll still have to get from London all the way back to Sunnydale...somehow.

"Not exactly the slaycation I wanted," she mutters. Seriously, first time in a new country and her whole future hinges on getting the hell back home.

 _Focus, Buffy._ Right, say she gives in. What's the worst that can happen? She has to dance to the Council's tune, play perfect slay-girl, and suck up all the criticism and belittling lectures. But then-home. Worth it?

Might have to be.

"Where are you guys?" Buffy wonders aloud. Her friends, Giles, Angel...three weeks and no one's come for her. There has to be a good reason for that. "The Mayor," Buffy assures herself. "I bet they're dealing with him right now. Can't be jetting off to rescue a girl who should be able to rescue herself."

Depressing thought. What else could be happening at home? "Oh, and Faith!" Obviously. "Gotta keep Faith under control. They wouldn't just leave Faith to take her crazy out on the Hellmouth. That'd be totally...irresponsible...oh my god, I sound like them!"

Keep her under control? What's the definition of _out of control?_ What the Council says? Those tweeds think _Buffy_ is out of control. What do they know? Who's to say Faith's actually out of line? Well, she killed a man, that's not okay-it's the opposite of okay. But should she be tried by human law? A regular court couldn't possibly understand, especially since slaying has to be so top secret. And the Council, would they even give her situation fair treatment if Faith came here for a trial? Doesn't seem like it. They'd probably skip straight to the replacing part!

Maybe the only person who can play checks and balances with a slayer...is another slayer.

Buffy sits up, legs pretzeling in a heap. Her spine stiffens, body on high alert, but the room is so silent she only hears buzzing. No, all the action is breaking in her own head.

 _You know in your gut we don't need the law. We are the law._

Faith, Faith. Was Faith right about everything all along?

Buffy shivers. "I have _got_ to get out of this place."


End file.
